Ros.
Tell us where 'tis, that we may take it thence,
And bear it to the chapel.

Ham.
Do not believe it.

Ros.
Believe what?

Ham.
That I can keep your counsel, and not mine own. Besides, to be
demanded of a sponge!--what replication should be made by the son
of a king?

Ros.
Take you me for a sponge, my lord?

Ham.
Ay, sir; that soaks up the King's countenance, his rewards,
his authorities. But such officers do the king best service in
the end: he keeps them, like an ape, in the corner of his jaw;
first mouthed, to be last swallowed: when he needs what you have
gleaned, it is but squeezing you, and, sponge, you shall be dry
again.

Ros.
I understand you not, my lord.

Ham.
I am glad of it: a knavish speech sleeps in a foolish ear.

Ros.
My lord, you must tell us where the body is and go with us to
the king.

Ham.
The body is with the king, but the king is not with the body.
The king is a thing,--